


Foreigner's God

by teuklberries



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band), NCT 127 - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Comfort/Angst, Death, Oneshot, Other, ancient god johnny, blood and death, but its a good read if you want to hurt yourself, dying hiker mark, johnny comforting mark, nice ending? a bit?, this is not fun and is not meant to be nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teuklberries/pseuds/teuklberries
Summary: Screaming the name of a foreigners God is the purest expression of grief
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Foreigner's God

**Author's Note:**

> i was supposed to be writing an essay tonight but i was listening to Hozier and i had an idea. enjoy. i hurt myself a lot with this.

The light that sneaks in through the gaps between the leaves is bright. Blinding, almost, only just bearable to the eyes. The trees rustle gently in the wind, their branches knocking together and chipping off scraps of bark that fall carelessly into the murky water below, creating ripples that carry through until they are blocked from living on by a limp, slumped body sitting against a gnarled black spruce tree.

The body sits slumped, lifeless, covered in moss, undisturbed for countless years. Years only a God would know to count. Vines, leaves, tightly packed peat hold up the figure, preventing it from ever falling forward and becoming lost in the wetland as so many have through the years, wandering deep into the woods and losing their minds, to later meet their fate in the water.

"No..." A meek voice calls from the edge of the bog, strained, tired, clinging onto whatever strength it could. "No... No..."

It's weak, it's _young._

"Not now..." Young. Hurt. _Scared._ "I have to go home..."

The calls continue, mindless pleas and quiet whimpers, drowning in the thick blades of watergrass dominating the wetlands.

"Mom..." Another weak call, accompanied by a pained, wet cough. "Just let me go home... Someone..."

From beneath the moss, a finger twitches.

The vines begin to shift, falling away from a slumped figure to reveal dirt stained skin, chapped lips, overgrown dirty blonde hair that hangs in clumps around a sharp jawline. Deep brown eyes reveal themselves for the first time in countless years. Years only a God would know to count. They meet the light, squinting painedly. The light is bright, almost blinding, but not quite so.

"Let me go home..." Another painful call, another wet cough. The eyes scan across the wetland, curious, they had not seen humanity for lifetimes, especially not in such a desolate, dreadful place. "Mom..." The eyes scan again, "Mommy..." The voice becomes more frantic, pained yelps interjected between the desperate calls.

The vines fall to the ground, sticking to the tightly packed peat, their new resting place for the coming millennia it seems. The body tenses, pushing itself to stand on weak legs, having been stagnant for lifetimes upon lifetimes. There is some stumbling and some trembling, but the body pushes on, dirty feet sinking into the saturated mud.

"Mommy..." Another yelp follows, this time its quieter, much weaker. "Home... Please..."

The body stumbles again, taking a sharp left to head toward the voice. The closer to the edge of the bog the body moves the water becomes shallower, no longer creating puddles of mud that entrap the bare feet passing through them for brief seconds, instead the puddles are replaced with wet leaves that fall from the oak trees outside the bog. The forest is gentler outside the bog, the hurt calls do not have a place in such a haven of peace.

"You are hurt, son." A deep voice asks, the body settled on the ground again, this time beside a young boy, no older than twenty, his face stained with blood and streaking tears.

"Mom... My mom..." The young boy chokes, drops of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and landing in the orange leaves below. The larger body reaches down and gently dabs the blood away, moving gently, as to not hurt the boy further.

"Shh... You're in safe hands, son," The deep voice speaks softly, careful to not startle the pitiful boy below. "Your name, son."

The younger boy whimpers again, another drop of blood falling from the corner of his mouth.

"Mark..." He says meekly, "my mom... I have to go home..."

The larger figure stills, thinking for some seconds, before gingerly taking the boys hand, its grip lax. Deep brown eyes scan again, landing on a book discarded in a wet patch beside the boy. The cover reading _Johnny's Guide To Hiking._

"Call me Johnny, son." The deep voice returns, still soft, still careful. "What happened, you're hurt, badly." The voice, Johnny's voice, continues, his dirtied hand carefully petting Mark's knotted hair. Mark sniffles again, his eyes welling with tears once more.

"Some guys... I don't know why... Hurt me bad..." He whimpers out between coughs, his voice getting quieter and more strained by the second. Johnny's eyebrows furrow, perhaps in anger, as Mark describes the way that two scoundrels attacked him without provocation, leaving him at the edge of the bog clinging to the last strings of life, even those strings slipping quickly from his grip.

"My mom... I have to go home..." Mark cries, his hand now gripping Johnny's arm tightly, his wrist had been cut deeply, he would not live much longer. Johnny could feel Mark's life fading out quickly, the light in his eyes dimming quickly. Johnny takes a deep breath, considering the situation before him. Mark would not make it home, even with the kindest of graces, he would rot in the woods as Johnny had done for so many lives, no company nor companionship. Johnny would not wish a fate as lonely on anyone.

"You will find rest, son, I will tend your injuries and we will take you to your mother. Come," Johnny says softly, reaching to take gentle hold of Mark's legs. The boy whimpers, yelps painedly, but nonetheless allows Johnny to lift him from the ground, leaves fluttering gently to the floor as he is lifted into the air.

Johnny turns and walks slowly toward the bog once again, the ground becoming wetter with each step taken, the peat patches inching closer. He hears Mark whimper, turning to clutch Johnny's long degraded shirt, his fingers just barely having the strength to hold on.

"Mommy..." Mark whimpers again, his voice barely audible. He doesn't have long left, Johnny feels the boys breaths get fewer and farther between, his chest barely rising anymore. Johnny walks deeper into the bog, the sound of water moving around his bare feet surrounding the pair, accompanied by the gentle twittering of a single bird, somewhere within the canopy above.

"It is okay, Mark, to move on." Johnny says softly "Your mother loves you, dearly, more than all else breathing on earth."

Mark whines a long, pitiful, painful whine. All his energy is used and he falls limp in Johnny's hold, his lungs giving a final hearty exhale, his chest falling one last time.

Johnny looks down at Mark sadly, his brown eyes filled with a clear regret that he could do nothing to help the boy, the young boy who deserved to leave the forest, to see his mother maybe once more as he so desperately wished. But life is cruel, it is unforgiving and it takes those who want so much more from it first.

Johnny approaches the black spruce once more. The vines look welcoming, as do the moss spores, the indents in the peat patches. He settles once again, his body held up by the carefully moulded peat, leaning against the old, gnarled spruce trunk. He clutches Mark's limp body tightly against his own, silently cursing the higher powers for taking such a gentle soul so harshly, so soon, so painfully. Johnny shifts, he moves carefully, as if Mark was still living, to find a position comfortable for the both of them, in the bog against the spruce tree. Johnny feels tired once more, the last of his own energy fading, he had expended all he could to keep Mark alive long enough to hear that his mother loved him so, as he knew the younger deserved.

Johnny's large frame fell limp against the tree once more, clutching Mark tightly still, keeping the young boy as safe as he deserved to be. There they will sit, for lifetimes to come, for centuries passing, still and obscured by vines, for God's do not die, nor do they rot.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed
> 
> kofi link: https://ko-fi.com/mars_127
> 
> curcious cat link: https://curiouscat.qa/tyongieberry


End file.
